The Quiet Before

I bent low over the painting, the tip of my brush dotting at the corner of the landscape. It was just a tree after all, but the spot of varnish that had welled up and discolored over the years needed to be removed. When the acetone leeched into the surface, it peeled back, and my heart clenched. As the varnish removed a layer of paint, it revealed a subtle, dark patch of pigment beneath its surface. I sat back, a chill running through me. Underpainting. Maybe a hidden painting?

I held my breath and stripped off my rubber gloves as I leaned back from the canvas. The visible image was a simple landscape: rolling hills and a few meandering roads, the colors muted by age and dust. The sky was a washed-out blue, and the trees on the horizon seemed too far off to be of much importance. It was nothing special, but that was never the point. What mattered now was finding out what lay beneath.

I put on fresh gloves and lifted the painting with care. The canvas felt heavier than it should have, and I walked slowly over to the imaging lab. I positioned it carefully on the table, making sure that it was level before placing the x-ray scanner above the canvas. The machine hummed to life, and I stepped back to the desk as the images slowly appeared on the screen.

Beneath the visible landscape, buried under layers of thick, muddled paint, was a face. It was likely a woman, as I could see brushstrokes of long hair curling around her face beneath the layers. The image was ghostly, faint, and slightly blurred, but unmistakable. A portrait. The faint outline of her features, her eyes staring somewhere just beyond the frame, sent a shiver through me. She was there, just beneath the surface.

I didn’t need to look at the x-ray again. I’d seen enough. I grabbed my phone and quickly searched for the artist’s name. It was barely anything—just some obscure mentions in art journals, but something about it felt wrong. There had to be more.

I spent the next few days buried in the archives; the museum had extensive access to resources on all sorts of artists but the painting’s creator remained elusive. There was nothing concrete about him, just scraps of details on a man who seemed as obscure in life as he was in death.

The painting—this painting—felt like a living thing, pulling me deeper into its mystery, one layer at a time. The more I uncovered, the more I realized how much there was to discover. As I attempted to track down her creator, I peeled back the landscape layer by layer, revealing the portrait of a strange, haunting woman.

Her pale face was framed by dark flowing hair that reached her shoulders. Her gaze was distinct, distant yet her features soft as though she’s looking at something or someone beyond my reach.  There was a haunting grace, a quiet calm to her, but an unsettling depth in her eyes.

 The light in the portrait was soft and diffused, casting a faint glow on her skin and creating gentle shadows under her cheekbones, giving her face an almost ethereal quality. She’s sat as though she is regal, with a slender curve to her neck though her pose was rigid and upright. Her gown looked heavy and richly textured and almost blurred into the darker background. I found myself losing time, focus, and all sense of responsibility to this woman.

Time had started to slip away in ways I couldn’t explain. Days melted into one another, the world around me a blur as I spent more time with her. But no matter how much I uncovered, there was always a feeling that I was just scratching the surface.

I pulled the stack of archived files towards me and sighed, taking another sip of the peach energy drink I’d come to rely on during these long stints of hunting down the elusive painter of the hidden woman.

I’d discovered his name was Luigi Diovinna, but beyond that, there were mere snippets of his life. An article about his ‘madness’ toward the end of his life and a ‘lost last painting,’ commissioned for a baroness. That article had sent a shiver up my spine. Could this be that painting? If so, I’d found a hidden treasure, but the baroness remained unnamed, leaving me with no way to verify who she was.

I leaned back in the chair, my eyes falling once more on the image of the woman. I hadn’t been able to stop thinking about her. I wasn’t the only one noticing the strain.

“Clara,” Jenna, a senior restorer, pulled me aside. “You’ve got to get back to the other works. The other paintings are falling behind. Victor has been asking about the St. Catherine piece. The museum’s losing patience.”

I nodded, though I couldn’t shake my growing unease. “I’ll catch up,” I murmured, but even I didn’t believe it. I couldn’t focus on anything else. The painting—the baroness had started to call her—had started to become the only thing I could focus on. Even when I tried, I found myself returning to the painting, as if it were calling to me. The woman’s eyes seemed to follow me wherever I went. The deeper I investigated her, the more she began to consume my thoughts, my every waking moment.

The article had come from a dusty file in the back of the local library, one that had been buried on microfiche and stuffed away in a back room somewhere. I’d had to bribe the front desk worker with a box of donuts and a large coffee, so she’d dig it out for me, but once I’d scrolled through three years’ worth of articles on local auctions, I finally struck paydirt.

“Haunted painting sells at auction—deadly baroness’ portrait said to haunt Diovinna’s last known work,” the headline read, giving much more detail than any other piece ever had. Though the baroness was still unnamed, the full article mentioned the painter’s dying days.

“Diovinna’s obsession with his final portrait left him a shadow of the man he once was. Those who knew him said he would often stand in front of the canvas, seemingly lost to time, as though the woman’s eyes spoke to him. In his last weeks, it was rumored he painted over the face of the woman.”  This had to be the painting. But how had it ended up in our archives? Why had he painted over her face? The deeper I uncovered the painting, the more I believed that the woman—her secrets—were pulling me into a vortex of obsession, just as they had Diovinna.

“Clara.” My head jerked up, the soft brush in my hand. The baroness’ eyes were inches from mine, her creamy skin slowly being cleaned at my skillful hands. I blinked and sat back, gazing around the room for the source of my name. But no one was around. The office was strangely empty. I stretched my back, leaning slightly over the chair, and stood up to walk down the hall.

Empty. And it was dark. Curious, I walked a few steps towards the archives room. “Clara!” I whipped around; no one was there, but the voice had come from my office. I rushed back in but found only the baroness staring at me.

Staring at me. Why were her eyes fixed on me? Her gaze had… Moved. Her eyes seemed to be fixed on me, just as obsessed with me as I was with her. As I stepped around the stacks of files, my tools, and other paintings I’d neglected in favor of the baroness, her eyes followed me around the room. I slowly sat down on the stool I’d left in front of her, sitting eye to eye with her. It was only us in the room, no one else.

The next day, I gazed around Vincent’s office as he sat in front of me. His arms were crossed over his chest and the furrow in his brow only deepened as he watched me fidgeting. “Clara.” He said, catching my attention. I glanced up quickly, my eyes locking on his face.  “I understand that you’re passionate about the restoration, but we’re running a museum, not a one-woman project. You’ve been neglecting the other pieces for weeks now. You know how important the St. Catherine piece is. If it isn’t ready by the next exhibition—”

“I’ll get to it.” I said, cutting him off. I blinked rapidly. The St. Catherine piece was complex, but it was just a cleaning job, and since I didn’t need to paint anything I’d be able to finish it quickly.

“Clara.” My eyes widened as the familiar, haunting voice called my name.

“Do you realize how much time you’ve spent on this—” Vincent paused, his eyes narrowing as he searched for the right words. “This obsession?”

“Don’t ignore me.” I closed my eyes and pressed my fingers to my forehead. I forced myself to meet his gaze. “I’ll get it done. I just need a little more time.”

Vincent let out a frustrated sigh, his hands running through his hair. “I need you to refocus. We can’t afford this. Not with the exhibit coming up.”

“Clara!” My head snapped up, but it was just me and Vincent in the room. I glanced down, my heart pounding. His hands were strained the same rusty red as the baroness’ dress, the splotches covering his fingers and seeping into his nail beds.

“Clara.” Vincent said sternly, though his voice was also tinged with worry. “You’re letting everything else slip.” He flicked through his computer and turned it to me, his stained fingers showing CCTV footage of the archives and— “Is that me?” I asked, gazing at the screen.

“Yes. You stood there for an hour like that, Clara. And this is at…” His voice trailed off as he checked the timestamp. His face grew increasingly lined with worry. “The point is you haven’t been yourself. You look like you haven’t slept in days, Clara. This isn’t you. Go home, get some rest.” He said, sighing as he adjusted the screen back to normal.

I stood and, without hesitating, I left his office. “And don’t do anything with that painting!” He called as I stalked out. But it was calling me. She was calling me. I glanced into the studio from the sliver of a window in the door. Through the frosted glass I could see a distorted view of the painting sitting on an easel at my workstation. I could see her outline, the delicate slope of her neck, and the blood red of her robes.

Suddenly, a shadowy figure moved across the threshold of my door, and I jumped back, startled.  I hesitated, struck by fear not that someone had broken into my office, but that someone was going to take the baroness from me. I turned the doorknob—But of course I’d locked it. And I could see her, right there. She was right there. A chill swept through me, and I shivered, closing my eyes as I dropped my hand from the door.

When I got home, I was a little shocked to see Ethan on the couch, anxiously texting people. “You’re home?” I said, dropping my keys and messenger bag by the door and taking off my coat.

He gazed up at me and tilted his head. “You’re home.” He said worriedly; there was no warmth to his voice, as if he was put out with me. I furrowed my brow. “Yeah, Vincent sent me home early, said I looked tired—”

“What, early? It’s nine pm, Clara.” Ethan said, putting his phone down. I blinked and looked out the window, my stomach clenching. He stood up, moving over to me as he noted the look of confusion on my face. “What’s going on, Clara?” He asked quietly. He reached out to rest his hand on the small of my back, but I pulled away, a feeling of overwhelming anxiety rolling through me.

“Nothing, I can’t…” I shook my head and then glanced up at him. “I can’t remember what I did… Vincent sent me home at… Eleven?” I said, my stomach twisting again. I leaned into the kitchen counter, holding it tightly. Ethan looked shocked, his lips parting to calculate the math.

“Okay, it’s fine… We’ll figure it out, you’ve just been stressed with the exhibition coming up and all the work…” He said, rubbing my back gently. I shook my head, reaching for my bag and rifling through it. My fingers crossed over something cold and metallic. I furrowed my brow and pulled out the ring of archive keys. It jingled in my hand, and I closed my eyes, shaking my head.

“Why do you—” Ethan began, but I cut him off.

“I must’ve just shoved them in my bag, it’s fine.” I said, taking a deep breath. I put the keys gently back into my bag and took out my phone again, checking the time. “It’s… late. I’m late. I came home late. I’m just… Tired.” I said slowly, rationalizing things to myself.

“Okay… Do you want to just call it a night? Get some rest, maybe a shower?” Ethan asked. I saw his nose crinkle from the corner of my eye. Did I stink? My jaw twitched as I bit my cheek.

“Yeah.” I nodded but couldn’t help the feeling that Diovinna’s baroness had something to do with the loss of time. I closed my eyes, and Ethan brushed my hair back from my face. “Okay.” I said, pulling away from him.

He looked sad, but didn’t move towards me as I stalked off to our bedroom, my phone held loosely in my fist. I stepped into the hallway leading to our bedroom, the light from the kitchen spilling across the dark-toned wood behind me. As I stepped towards the darkened bedroom, I felt adrift, and my head felt heavy. I stopped at the doorway and lifted my head, my fingers paused on the light switch.

The room glowed with the dull orange light from the streetlamp that streamed through the curtains. It made for an eerie sort of atmosphere but that’s not why I paused. My eyes were locked on the full-length mirror across the room from me. Its glassy surface should reflect only the bed, maybe the edge of my body. Not the full shadow that stood ominously facing me.

I blinked, frozen in place as I stared at the shadow. It almost pulsated, its shoulders hunched. It wasn’t exactly shapeless, but it didn’t have any defining features. Still, it felt familiar in a way it shouldn’t have been.

My fingers twitched, brushing the edge of the light switch. I took a shaky breath.  I flipped the switch, and the figure was gone as soon as light flooded the room. The mirror was empty. My chest clenched painfully, and I leaned against the doorframe.

Slowly, I flicked the light again. There she was, dominating the mirror, a black mass, but I knew her. I knew who she was. I flicked the light on again and she was gone, but just as quickly I flicked it off and she was there.

Panic rose like a bile in my throat. Distantly, as if underwater, I could hear Ethan calling to me, but his words were lost. Because the baroness was calling me, her voice was rising in a screaming ring in my ears. I trembled with fear as I stepped towards the mirror, towards her. My mind fought my body as deep, panicky breaths burst from my chest.

As I stepped up to the mirror, the shadow swelled and blossomed, the shrill screams rising to fever pitch in my ears. A hand wrapped around my shoulder just as the mirror shattered.

“It’s with great pleasure that we present the final restored work of Luciano Diovinna, The Baroness. Its beauty belies its tragic past, and we are proud to display it as a memorial to our departed coworker.” Vincent held the champagne glass aloft, then took a sip and stepped down from the podium.

Beside him, The Baroness had been artfully restored, her colors vibrant, her skin creamy, her robes deep and gory slash of blood red. She looked almost youthful, brought back to life at Clara’s skilled hands.

“It’s a shame.” An older woman stands next to a younger one, both eyeing The Baroness and the In Memoriam plaque that had been hung next to her frame.

The younger one nods, glancing nervously at the portrait. “It’s tragic, but did you hear about what happened with her boyfriend?”

 “I mean, the portrait, sure, it’s gorgeous, but… I heard it was… bad.” They glance at the painting. “Like, gruesome. Like she was obsessed—” They cut off, clearly unsure how much to say.

The older coworker’s voice drops even lower. “Obsessed doesn’t even cover it. But you didn’t hear it from me. It’s a horrible end, though.”

They each sip their champagne, the younger one shivering as if she’s said too much. The older glances down at her watch. “Mmm! Come on, the presentation. We’re late!”